Onward
by Merlin Fisher
Summary: Alastor Moody, a little while after a certain incident in Deathly Hallows.  Obviously contains SPOILERS.  Rated for language and for Moody's eyeball, but nothing too serious.  One shot.  Hope you like, please R&R!


_author's note: I normally don't write "after death" stories, because they're usually impossibly sappy. But I just had to do this one._

-----

Moody was flying as fast as he could make his broom go, wand in hand, throwing jinxes in every direction as he tried to blast his way through a horde of Death Eaters who were all trying to kill him. They were intent on capturing Mundungus, disguised as Harry Potter, who was sitting behind Moody on the broom, clutching him and whimpering in fear. 

"Shut up, can't you give me a – _Stupefy! –_ give me a hand here, will you?! Useless piece of ... aaargh!" exclaimed the old Auror, ducking as a curse flew past his head, destroying his hat.

"Bloody hell! I liked that hat," muttered Moody, launching another spell at a large cloaked figure who was stupid enough to try and block his path. Then his passenger let out a terrified scream.

"_It's him, it's You-Know-Who, he's coming!"_ Mundungus finally took out his wand, but Moody reached back and grabbed his wrist.

"You're not going anywhere! Sit still!"

"Let me go!"

"You idiot, you're going to get us both killed –"

But Moody was forced to let go as another curse came within inches of his arm, and suddenly the broom was much lighter. Mundungus had Disapparated. Moody, half turned around and trying to regain his balance, glanced over his shoulder to see and –

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

It was Voldemort, all right, Mundungus hadn't been lying, but Moody had only the space of a heartbeat to appreciate it. Then the Killing Curse blasted him right in the face, and his wand flew out of his hand as he fell backward off his broom.

Just as well, perhaps, that he was dead long before he hit the ground.

-----

He felt a crash and a shock, but not a physical impact. It was more of the sort of shock you get when you're in the middle of a dream and suddenly an alarm jolts you awake. Very unpleasant. Moody picked himself up and looked around.

His body was there, right beneath him. It was twisted unnaturally, broken in the fall. Moody looked down at himself and noticed, in the darkness, that he had turned transparent. And he was looking at his body from the outside.

"Bugger!" he swore. "Dung, you miserable spawn of a toad." But there wasn't much he could do about it now. He hoped like hell that Harry Potter had made it safely to the Burrow, otherwise all this mess would be for nothing.

How had the Death Eaters known they were going to be moving the boy tonight? Somebody must've told on them. _Constant vigilance, _Moody thought. He had let his guard slip for a few precious moments, and that had been the end of him.

At least, he thought with grim satisfaction, it'd been You-Know-Who himself who had gotten him. Moody was savagely pleased at that; he would not have wanted to fall to a lesser wizard, that would have been disgraceful for an old campaigner like him.

His clothes seemed to be intact on his hazy form, but his long-lost leg had regrown and – Moody touched his insubstantial face – he seemed to have his own real eye back, where he'd been missing one for years. Yep, that settled it, he was dead all right. As if there had been any doubt. He took out his hip flask and tried to take a drink, but there was nothing inside. Drat.

Three figures alighted on the ground nearby, and approached. Death Eaters. Dolohov was one, Moody recognized him since he'd lost his hood – another one might be Nott, judging by his size, but he could not identify the third in the darkness.

They walked up to Moody's body, moving slowly, as though each was hoping the others would advance first. Moody laughed softly. Even after being hit with the Killing Curse and falling a thousand feet onto hard ground, the bastards were still a bit afraid of him. But finally, they stood looking down at his remains. Nott picked up a stick and prodded Moody's limp form with it, and Moody snapped, "Leave me alone! Don't touch that, it's mine." It felt odd to be watching them meddle with his remains when he wasn't part of them any more.

Dolohov put his fingers right into the corpse's face and wrenched Moody's magical eye out of its socket, with a slight squishing noise. "Hey!" shouted Moody. "Hands off, you scum! That's my eye!" But the Death Eaters were obviously unable to see or hear him. Moody swung his fist at one of them, furiously, but his hand passed right through the other man's body. "Ugh!" exclaimed Moody, pulling his hand back. He wished he hadn't lost his wand, although since he had apparently become incorporeal, perhaps it wouldn't do him much good now even if he still had it. He tried to grab Nott's wand, but his fingers wouldn't even brush it.

Despite his efforts to deter them, the Death Eaters packed up Moody's corpse and took it away with them somewhere. Moody was left alone on a patch of empty ground.

It'd take him a little while to turn into a proper ghost, he knew. If that was what he was going to do ... Until then, he was exempt from a few of the rules: he hadn't become that pearly, misty color yet, so nobody could see him, and he didn't have to stay where he had died – which was fortunate, because the uninhabited area where he had landed looked dreadfully dull. Plenty of places for assassins to hide, but then he was dead, so it didn't really matter any more.

Might as well get along to the Burrow and check on the rest of the Order, Moody decided. Not that he could help them now, but he wanted to see what was going on. Now, how was he going to get there without a broom?

He started walking, or maybe floating would be a better term, with an uncomfortable last glance back at where his body had fallen. He bade a silent farewell to it and then left. No sense in being sentimental over it. Too bad those damned Dark wizards had taken it away. Moody hated to think that he might be an Inferus next week.

A soft rushing noise somewhere overhead caught his attention. Moody froze, listening. Then, of all things, a big black thestral – the biggest he had ever laid eyes on -- glided through the treetops and landed right in front of him.

Moody surveyed it cautiously. "Well, hello there," he said. He didn't much fancy the things, but they were intelligent and harmless enough, and ... an interesting coincidence ... they were one of the few creatures that'd be able to see him in his present state.

Which must be why this one had suddenly come to him. They were said to be Death's steeds, except that Moody didn't see anyone on the back of the thestral ... was this beast here to take him away, to wherever dead wizards go?

If only he could ride it to the Burrow. That was where he wanted to be. But Moody was not at all sure, if he mounted the creature, whether he would have a chance to get off it later.

The thestral took a few steps toward him. It looked him right in the eye. Then it lowered its scaly head and knelt down, as if inviting him to get on.

"Oh, what the hell," Moody muttered, and went to climb onto its back. Unlike with the wizards, Moody found he had no trouble touching the thestral. It was worth the risk, he decided: there was no way he was getting much of anywhere on his own, and perhaps the creature would take him ... "To the Burrow, near Ottery St. Catchpole," he told it.

The thestral stood up, spread its wings, and took off into the sky.

Hah! This was a damn sight better than flying on a broomstick. Moody didn't have to steer, just relax and enjoy the view. What a pity he had never taken the trouble to get acquainted with thestrals before. The ride would have been almost pleasant, except that Moody was wishing he could've Apparated, wishing the creature would go a little faster – though the ground below was zooming by – and wishing, most of all, that he wasn't dead.

Old Albus Dumbledore had gone and copped it six weeks ago, at the wand of Severus Snape no less ... never should've trusted that greasy ex-Death Eater, Moody had told Albus again and again: Dark wizards don't change their Marks ... and Dumbledore's death left Moody a lot of work to do, to keep You-Know-Who in check.

Those younger wizards: could they really manage the whole mess on their own? If only they still had a senior Auror to help them out. Well, Kingsley was a good man; hopefully they'd take his help.

Moody looked around the sky, but he saw no more wizards or spells. The battle was over. He would find out whether his mission had been successful soon enough.

-----

The thestral landed in the Weasleys' garden with scarcely a sound. Moody had felt something odd as they came in: a brief tingling, tugging sensation. That had to be the protective spells at work. Apparently they couldn't keep out a dead man; just as well, really. Like Patronuses: those could get through anything, if you used them properly. Moody walked right into the house, going through the door without opening it.

Several people were gathered in the kitchen. Moody saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Fred, George, Ginny, Bill, Bill's girlfriend Fleur Delacour, Hagrid, Hermione Granger, Remus Lupin, and Tonks ... and right among them was Harry Potter, now the only Harry in the room, as the others had all changed back. Moody smiled just a little, relieved. George (or was it Fred?) had a nasty-looking cut on his head and he'd lost an ear; the others looked all right.

Harry was saying loudly: "I don't think anyone in this room would ever sell me to Voldemort."

"You've got courage, boy," said Moody, "but you'd better watch your back. Somebody betrayed you tonight, all right." No one heard him. Nobody saw him, either, quite obviously.

Bill went to a cabinet and took out a lot of glasses, and poured shots of firewhisky. He sent them toward everyone using his wand, then held up his own glass in a toast.

"Mad-Eye," he said. Everyone repeated Moody's name, and drank. Too bad they didn't use his real name, Moody thought, but then nobody besides Albus Dumbledore ever called him Alastor. It was a nice thought all the same, though.

They were good kids, every one of 'em. Moody hoped Harry really was this "Chosen One" everybody believed he was. Dumbledore certainly seemed to think so, but Dumbledore had been wrong before: especially, Moody thought darkly, when it came to picking his Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers. He still hadn't quite forgiven Dumbledore for not noticing that impostor three years ago wasn't really him. And as for last year's teacher ... well. Snape had turned right around and killed Dumbledore himself just six weeks ago. What a pity.

And now the remains of the Order of the Phoenix were the best hope left for carrying on the fight against darkness. Moody looked round at them all. They were pale, exhausted, and they looked so fragile. The girls were near tears, and so was sentimental Hagrid, in fact. But Moody knew they were all tougher than they seemed. They'd risked their lives tonight, and they had come through. Mundungus had panicked and bailed, the sorry little wretch, but the rest of them were all here: they'd gone and tangled with You-Know-Who himself and every Death Eater he could muster, and they had survived. They'd live to fight another day.

Moody took his hip flask and held it up, though no one could see him, mirroring the toast they'd given him. "Here's looking at you, kids," he said.

Then he turned and went outside. Oddly, no one had noticed the strange thestral on the lawn. Moody thought he had figured out why.

He climbed onto its back again, wrapped his arms around its neck, and said: "Okay. You can take me home now."

And they flew away into the night, as the first glimmers of dawn touched the eastern horizon.


End file.
